The Blood In My hands
Marley Ong



I close my eyes and let my hands hover over the ivory. My fingers twitch in the air at a rhythm matching my pounding heart, so much that they tap the keys and somehow that tells me they’re right where they belong.

It’s now or never. The silence is cut by soft chatter. I remain motionless to prevent any fidgeting from disrupting my listening in.

“Prodigy,” they whisper. “It runs in his blood.”

They know of my father, the man who desired long ago for his life to be made through the piano, who now rests easy in a box seat high above the audience and myself, hands on his lap, one of which is covered in bandages, the reminder of a dream broken. They also know of me, his son, the boy presumed a miracle for knowing the piano like the back of my own hands, never taught by anyone, who fell in love with the dream my father deemed best to pass onto me.

Don’t worry, Father, it shall live.

When I finally lower my hands, let them guide themselves through the first song, I open my eyes. I know my smile matches Father’s.

Our dream, it’s thriving.

First published: May 2018
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